Meet Me
by Shmeadly
Summary: What if Adam hadn't been the one assigned to Juliette's cell?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is just something I have been toying with today. I own nothing of this series, I just love it dearly. Enjoy!**

The sun shines through my tiny window. It pours across my face, waking me up. I push off my threadbare mattress and stretch out to the best of my ability. The cell feels warm today, the heat creeping through the concrete, my one blessing in this dank place.

 _It must feel amazing outside…_

I shake off the thought. They will never let me outside again. I shouldn't even think of it. In moments of paralyzing paranoia I am convinced that the Reestablishment can read minds. They already monitor our every move, why not our thoughts as well? The only thing that calms me down is knowing that if they could read minds, they would have come for me long ago. Or, perhaps, I wouldn't have been locked up to begin with.

 _If only they could have seen my innocence…_

No. Stop. Focus on getting through the day, just like all the others. I begin to remake my bed, the one thing I can control in this place. They can take everything I own, but they cannot force me to act like a barbarian, it just isn't who I am.

Or is it? Who am I?

With my bed made, I slip back into old habits.

 _One, two, three cracks. Two, four, six, eight, ten toes. One, two eyes. One, two, three-_

I violently jerk around. Something stirs in the corner of my vision. It isn't uncommon for creatures of all types to get into my cell, but none this large. A small yelp escapes my lips before my throat closes for good. My hands clutch my chest, which heaves once, twice, three times…

I take in my new roommate, my mouth wide open.

My God, he is glorious.

He has a simple, cotton t-shirt, much like mine except nothing like mine because his fits him so perfectly. His form is intimidating. He must have been in the army. I have only seen build like his on soldiers invading our neighborhood. Every muscle perfectly etched through precise training. So lean, strong…

One strand of his hair dangles from his artistically unruly hair. I hate it. I want to push it back into place and run my-

Next my eyes find his jaw. It's so sharp that it could cut the tension in the air. He's clean-shaven, making me ever more suspicious of his presence here.

 _Ex-soldier, muscles still in excellent condition, well-fed, clean-shaven…_

The paranoia is kicking in again. I clear my mind once again.I begin to count again. _Two arms, two legs, four ends of two shoelaces, two eyes-_

Two eyes

Two eyes that are so striking it is hard to contain my gasp. Two eyes that sparkle just so when the light catches. Two eyes that are so encompassing that it takes me a moment to realize that they are staring back at eyes that I glance away from so fast I nearly miss their translucent, early-spring shade of green.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this next chapter. I am trying to keep the plot moving, despite shifting between perspectives, but if it feels like it is dragging at all, please let me know. Thank you for reading!**

Guards lead me to her room early in the morning. Secretly, I regret my decision to come here. The smell in the halls is stale and rancid, and the walls are crumbling. The screams are the worst. They reverberate through the stone and chill me to my core. In all my years commanding my military, in all the abuse I have taken as well as witnessed, I have never heard screams like these. They are mad, out of control, completely reckless and uncaring. They are a new kind of desperation I hope I never know. The only thing that keeps me here is the knowledge that this is the only way to get the answers I need. I am anxious to interact with her. This mysterious girl and her deadly skin have occupied my thoughts for a long time.

I cringe the moment I enter the room. If it is possible, the air is more stagnant here. There are two simple beds, one spread with a thin blanket and worn pillow for myself, and one containing the sleeping form I am here to observe.

It is odd to be here. Everything in this place contrasts harshly with the place I grew up. The base is organized, functions like a well-oiled machine, and, most importantly, is clean. Here cracks line the walls and evidence of animal habitation is evident. I observe all of this, and yet, oddly enough, I associate none of it with the girl. Her bed, the meager mattress that it is, is in better condition than most patient's. Her blanket is tucked around her bed like a properly made bed, and she cleans her clothing to the best of her ability at every opportunity. In the midst of disorder, she has made her living quarters respectfully habitable. She may look broken, but something in her persists, refusing the decline others have taken.

Unwittingly, this girl- I remind myself to refer to her by name- this Juliette, has made herself into an enigma. She has been the object of my fascination for quite a while. It began, and remains for the most part, as a way to help my mother. I was researching people like her to hopefully release her from the torture she experiences day in and day out. Then, out of the blue, it became something more. I was no longer driven to get out of bed by the idea that I was saving my mother, but by the thought that I could see Juliette.

She has this innate ability to remain absolutely still for hours on end. It was mesmerizing. Sometimes I see her lips move, they seem to be counting, over and over again. Only once did I ever hear her speak.

I made sure to maintain my emotional distance, however. I know far too well how easy it is to lose someone in this world, and how hard it is to let go. I had been content studying her from a distance, through security cameras and police report. Everything was going well until she began to worm her way into my work. I found myself muttering her name in meetings, losing my train of thought in favor of one about her while instructing my soldiers. This could not happen, would not do. My father insisted that I make something useful of her before he did it himself. I would not let him touch her.

Vaguely, I worry about what atrocities he is forcing upon my soldiers back on base or on my mother at my house. I cannot think of those things, though because they will just send me out of here, back into the lion's den with no way of curing my mother. I have to focus. I build the walls in my mind. Brick by brick, wall by wall, the room goes up. It covers the one I am seeing now, blocking out the grey walls and the horrifying smell.

My heart rate calms and I sit cross-legged on the mattress opposite Juliette. She is sleeping and likely will be for a while. The workers slipped a sedative into her food so they could sneak me in here. They are all too fearful of her to deal with her while she is awake. Horrible as it sounds, I am glad that her touch can kill. Many of my soldiers are desperate, foolish men pulled from the war torn world. Many have not seen women for years. Many would do horrible things to this poor girl just to forget their troubles, and that I cannot stand for. They cannot break my weapon before I have the chance to learn what I can.

I soon realize that I am not a patient person. I am driven, organized and committed to long-term results, but I have never been good at sitting and waiting. My body itches to move and accomplish something. Habit tells me I should be giving orders and signing my name to paperwork. Without all the craziness of my everyday life, I am lost. Pacing the cell would serve no purpose but to make me dizzy. Even my closet on base is larger than this. I think up other physical distractions like sit ups or push ups. These would be especially useful considering the training time I am losing, but I fear I will wake her. I am impatient, but I am not cruel. She deserves all the sleep she can get in here. It is the only escape.

The screaming continues.

Finally, when my muscles are stiff from waiting, the first rays of light trickle in through the window. The analytical part of my mind reminds me that Juliette tends to be an early riser. I'd like to say this is something we have in common, but more often than not it isn't that I wake up early, it is that I never go to sleep.

The girl rolls over in her sleep. My back straightens, my body prepares for the show I must put on, but she only settles back into the mattress again. The tips of the strands brush the floor. I want to move them, I despise the thought of them getting dirty, but touching an untouchable girl in her sleep is a dangerous move.

Her breathing becomes calm again, and I settle against the wall. My excitement is building. I wish I had waited longer before coming. The less time in this horrid place, the better. I wish I had thought more of the feeling of fresh air on my face. I wish I had respected my freedom a little more.

 _264 days. She has been locked up for 264 days._

God, I want to talk to her.

My focus returns to the sky outside. It is bright blue, yellow light spilling across the windowsill, though never could that window be a substitution for the real thing. The day is warm, luckily. The chill is sucked right out of the room, replaced by a comfortable, albeit stuffy, air.

All through the sunrise I tap my fingers, angling them so the pads of my fingertips hit the concrete instead of the nail. I rake my fingers through my hair, disrupting one of the strands. I immediately want to fix it, but I think of the believability it will add to my story. I need to her believe me. I need Juliette to cooperate. This is my only chance. The tension mounts.

Finally, the sun rises high enough. It was tracing a slow path across the floor all morning and has fallen across her eyes at last. My roommate begins to stir. She sighs, quietly, but loudly enough to alert me. Slowly, joints cracking, she pushes off the mattress and stretches her long limbs. Her shadow is willowy, her bedhead adding to the effect. The girl spends a moment in complete stillness, seeming almost to meditate, before springing into action. Juliette remakes her bed quickly and efficiently. My heart leaps at the thought that she will soon find me here.

Panic overtakes rational thought.

 _Should I say something? Should I clear my throat?_

I contemplate laying down and pretending to be asleep, letting her decide how to greet me.

Just as I move to lay back, I am caught by the most captivating eyes I have ever seen. They are blue but green at their heart. The sea and the sky mingle in her irises. Deeper and wider than the ocean, they make me feel like I am floating. Her eyes carry an air of mystery, a message that welcomes but cautions. Everything about them is enchanting and they are both locked on me.

Juliette has frozen like prey in the eyes of the predator. Anxious as a deer, she remains in one spot, the only thing that moves are her eyes. Her mouth hangs open, revealing perfectly white teeth. She doesn't breathe. I know she is afraid, and I am sorry to provoke this feeling in her. I can do nothing I can do until she moves, breathes again. Like a wild animal, I must let her come to me.

It goes against my nature. I am the pursuer, I get things done quickly and efficiently, checking them off as if they are nothing. Had she been a prisoner brought to base, we would be halfway through an interrogation by now. But there is no one here but the two of us. The cameras have been shut off at my request. I try not to think about my father overriding that command, and remain completely still until she finally moves. Her eyes finally find mine, their last stop on her search of my body, then flicker away.

"Hello," I say, not sure I can trust my own voice. "What's your name, love?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Here is a brand new chapter! I will try to keep on top of things with this story (sometimes I am not amazing at it), but with summer coming it is looking promising. I have the next chapter already written, it just requires a few revisions, so keep an eye out for that. This chapter switches between perspectives, where as the other's belonged solely to one character. Let me know what you think!**

Juliette's POV

My name? _My name?_

He wants to know my name.

It takes all of my self control, but I do not turn back to him. His eyes race along my figure and it kills me. I want to know the thoughts running through his mind. I want to know why he won't stop staring at me. I want to tear his eyes out with my hands. My mind spins at having been addressed directly for the first time in years. More than that, there is no malice in his voice, just simply conversational curiosity. Odd. So odd. So exciting.

My eyes are restless, uncomfortable with their chosen spot. I pick a new one just behind his head.

I need to look at him.

I can ignore him.

He is fascinating...

My mind, my heart, my blood, all of my body races to make sense of this invasion. Am I being punished? Is this some sick experiment? A disgusting thought worms its way into my mind. _They've run out of space in the asylum._ I am horrified and scandalized and embarrassed and mute and so so curious.

This blonde boy is young, his features indicating that he is not much older than myself, but, oddly enough, he exudes confidence and control. How could be possibly belong here? It seems like nothing could ever get to him. The word invincible seems fitting. He is not yet broken. I wonder what could be wrong with him that they would condemn him to this place. He had spoken to me fearlessly. Nothing about him was messy or torn, his arrival was completely unlike mine.

He is so...normal. _Perhaps that is why he is here._

But it is impossible to know. Being odd garners suspicion. Being outspoken makes you a threat. Being too quiet means you have something to hide. This boy could be anything.

Surely he must be crazy, though. Why would they send him here otherwise?

My brain already feels overworked. It doesn't take very much to put strain on me these days. With no food, no interactions until this morning, and nothing to look at but these monotonous walls, my brain has atrophied significantly. I return to my counting, this time listing all the things I already know about my new roommate. It doesn't take long to run out.

He appeared in the middle of the night.

He wants to know my name.

He called me _love_.

He must be insane.

He is the most interesting thing to happen to me in 264 days.

The boy cocks his head, still studying me. My skin crawls. My eyes water. I blink quickly, refusing to let him see my tears. Embarrassment paints me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. What will he do to me? He is far bigger than I am, suspiciously well-fed, adorned with perfect muscles.

What must he think of me, this girl forgotten by society? A delusional girl who has finally lost her mind? A dangerous creature more suited for a zoo than the world beyond these walls? My meager clothing, ratty and worn, stained so many times I have lost count, my skinny form digging into this mattress, my submissive, upright fetal position are all on display, making me self conscious in way I never could have imagined.

How could I have let myself sink this low? Why does it bother me that he might notice?

The only thing that soothes my mind is the thought that he is in the same boat I am. The only difference being his clothes, which are several months newer.

 _We will see how he looks after 264 days._

For a moment, I almost feel smug. I won't be the only one. I won't be the only lost one in the world. Then, unexpectedly, a pang punctures my stomach and spills my intestines across the cement. Never before during my captivity had a I pictured my future. My death I had envisioned millions of times, how the soldiers would rush in, beat me, shoot me, stab me, everything that my mind has ever seen happen to others was now all I had to look forward to in this place. But now, for the first time, I imagined my survival. And it is bleak. I don't want to die, but do I really want to spend the rest of my life here? With all my best moments already behind me? Is that really better than dying here and now?

I don't want to be the only one. I want this boy to fall apart just as I have, but the thought of another 264 days to see him break, 528 days in all, it is a crushing thought. And, the more I think about it, I don't want to crush his hopes, not really. I am just being spiteful and I already feel bad about it. I just want a normal life.

My fingers itch. I want to write down this strange occurrence, to make it real. I spare a dangerous glance toward my journal's hiding place.

 _How will I write now?_

How can I ever sneak my journaling past my new roommate?

 _I suppose I'll be up all night writing. It's not like I'll be able to sleep with him here anyway._

He doesn't say anything to me for the rest of the day. After he asked my name he waited for two minutes for a reply I never gave, then sat back against the well, acting indifferent, but something about the movement told me he was thought tosses and turns in my mind. _Why should he care whether or not I speak to him? He probably thinks I'm crazy…_

I do not move until the late afternoon. All my muscles protest, but the thought of moving and attracting his attention keeps me stiff and still.

Eventually, the door creaks. I flinch, but remain in my spot. Rations of food and water slide through the tiny opening in the bottom, a slot resembling a doggy door, but not nearly big enough for me to slide through. I want to warn my cellmate that the bowls are likely hot, but to my surprise he doesn't move toward them. He's been almost as still as I have, quite a feat for someone who just arrived. He layed down on his mat soon after his failed attempt at conversation and only moved a couple times, mostly to look at me, but occasionally to fix his golden locks.

Three silent minutes pass, the lack of sound like an uncrossable void. The boy- much as I am trying to ignore his presence, not knowing his name is a struggle- moves toward the food. Fear pierces me. What if he takes my food? How much does it take to satiate the appetite of a boy that tall? Certainly more than they have given us, considering I, at half his size if that, go to bed hungry every night.

But his actions are unexpected, completely unprecedented in the cutthroat world just outside the thick glass and concrete. He slides his rations and mine toward me, then backs away, assuming his previous position. _Foolish,_ I think. _You can never know when they will feed us again_.

I want to push his portion back to him, but my need to hide in plain sight as well the warmth unexpectedly pooling in my stomach stops me. Much as I hate that he will go hungry, it is just nice to feel like I have someone at my back, even if he is just buttering me up.

I want to trust him. So much. I want to believe the earnest green eyes that have made their way into my life.

I take a deep breath, feeling my chest rise and fall. I look at him, only moving my head from my position. He looks up, green eyes tearing my breath away. _I don't think I will ever get used to them._ I don't want to.

My lips open, then quiver, as if a chill is running through me. Then, as loudly as I can muster, yet as soft as I can be, I whisper, "Thank you."

Green eyes nods. Does not look away. Oh God Oh God Oh God.

I move my head back. Close my eyes. Try to quell my shaking. _I am being ridiculous._

Somewhere in the middle of chiding myself, I realize that my life, strangely, isn't that far off from those of my peers. Feeling isolated, hating my parents, terrified to talk to a boy. Odd how life works sometimes.

Green eyes train on my hands.

"You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not a patient person. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already."

His tone of voice lets me know that he is trying to be reassuring. I am only mortified by his comment. I do nothing.

Day turns to night outside the cell. My cellmate falls asleep, back to me, blanket pulled over him. I watch him for nearly an hour. Once I am sure he is asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, I reach over and eat the cold remains of the food. My stomach reacts violently, having been deprived of food all day. I have to curl my arms around it to stop it from making noise. Then, silently, I slide down underneath my blanket, trying my best to get comfortable. My eyes never leave his form until I can no longer hold them open.

I have a dreamless sleep.

Warner's POV

She doesn't speak to me all day.

I don't know why I anticipated anything else. She has been deprived of social interaction for far too long. I should have begun this months ago. After I asked her name, she froze up like a statue. I hate that I scare her, but even her stillness is hypnotizing. I have never seen anything like it. All day I struggle to keep my eyes off of her. Mentally I kick myself. Of course she is real. Of course this is how she is. After all these months of observation, I should have known how Juliette would act. She stares at the wall for hours. The light turns golden outside.

Her hair is like a curtain. The tip of her nose, straight and narrow, can be seen from my vantage point. Her silent breath rustles a few rogue strands of hair. I know her mind must be running wild. She is so still and yet so active. I find myself longing for her eyes. They are the most exquisite blue.

 _You must stop. Be professional. This is a military mission. You must never forget your place. You must never lose yourself._

The reprimand brings me back to myself. My scars sting as I think through it. It is a mantra I have told myself many times over the years. No personal emotion, no attachment, certainly no pity. Outwardly, I have become my father's son. Despised by all and feared across the globe. When it comes to some, my soldiers in particular, I need this shield, but it is a solitary existence. Every once in awhile there is that one rogue thought. _If only I had someone to be close to._

I crush it like a bug. That life isn't a choice in this world. That isn't that society we are building.

God, I hate that word. We. It ties you in so closely to the people you want to be farthest from. It sneaks up on you like an animal in the night.

Food comes around suppertime, sliding through the door, steaming and unappetizing. My stomach wants to growl. My nose wants to recoil. After a few moments of thought, I push the food toward Juliette. She could use a few extra calories.

Her reaction is both fascinating and frustrating.

She breathes in, then out. Once. Hard. This is the most communication I have received from her all day. It is like she speaks through some foreign code, a language all her own. She is a strange creature.

Her eyes find mine. The soft part of my brain, the one I have to monitor so closely, breaks open, smiling wide. My expression reveals nothing. Eyes so blue, in such wonderful contrast with her dark hair. Lovely. Juliette is unlike anyone I have ever seen. My mother, beautiful though she is, is fair, her hair the color of straw and her eyes like emeralds. Then there is my father. His hair is the color of dirt and his eyes are more grey than blue. My jaw is exactly like his. I hate it.

But with Juliette everything about her is exaggerated, yet demure, one piece blending directly into the other.

Then her lips twitch, her whole body, in fact, is vibrating before me.

 _She is terrified. I am on my best behavior and still she hates me._

I want to hold her hands. Still them. The shaking unnerves me.

Then, the most amazing thing happens, something that, had she chosen to remain silent for months after this, would have still given me hope that she could come around.

She whispers, just barely loud enough to hear, "Thank you."

Her lips are mesmerizing. They release the words, her hands stilling significantly, though not completely. They come back together, resting gently against one another as if they had never parted. Her head turns away again.

My spell is broken.

A wave of anxiety sweeps through me. I have to regain her attention. I cannot lose all the progress I made. She has to speak to me again.

"You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not a patient person. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already."

The moment the words are out of my mouth I regret them. It was a desperate move. I meant to comfort her, but reminding her just how endangered her life is on a daily basis is probably not the way to make friends. _Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Why must I do this?_

I spend the rest of the night sitting as she does, trapped in a torrent of self-deprecation. _I have to be objective,_ I remind myself. _I act foolishly when I let myself be overcome._

As night falls, I roll onto my side, facing away from this mysterious girl. I pray no one is watching my failures. I pray I will still have control when I get out. I pray that my mother is safe. I miss her.

Walls. They build themselves, and, just as I am drifting off, the sound of Juliette eating warms my heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: A new chapter! I hope you all enjoy! It begins in Warner's perspective and moves to Juliette's. The superscripted 1 is to point out one of Shakespeare's most famous quotes, which I thought applied nicely here and definitely does not belong to me. Thanks for reading!**

Juliette lies with her arms underneath her head. Her toes are pointed toward the far wall, pulling the muscles in her legs taut. She lets them relax for a moment before resuming. These movements are the only evidence I have that she is awake. Her eyes are closed, taunting me. All it would take is a shift, a cough, a yell and she would open her eyes, exposing their brilliance to me.

My foot moves to scuff the floor, hoping to provoke a reaction in her before my common sense overrides the command.

 _What am I doing?_

It would do me no good to scare her off. Slowly, I begin stringing together information in my head, fabricated stories that I can trade for her secrets. As I am developing my backstory, I realize that quite a bit of my real life has wound its way through my tale. I want her to know me. I want her to trust me. I dread the day when we have to leave this cell, the day that she will learn how she has been betrayed. My heart sinks even as I remind myself that this is all for my mother.

It doesn't take long for my thoughts to bore me. I am too distracted by Juliette. My curiosity is all-consuming. Her mystery is boundless.

I wonder if I should have sent someone else, perhaps someone more objective. A soldier would have been the best choice. They live for one thing: to accomplish goals I place before them. Any one of them could've gotten the information. It is likely that they would, in fact, have been more efficient than myself.

That would have been entirely impossible, though. I have to ball my hands to quell the angry shaking. I have to smash my lips together to prevent the jealous shouting. I have to remind myself that _I_ am here. _I_ won the fight with my father, and _I_ am the one sitting here, looking at this enigma of a girl. No, no. Convenient as it might have been, my soldiers would have done little for my cause, to say nothing of my sanity.

I roll over, bunch my pillow under my chest, and prop my chin on my hands. I feel unusually casual. Never would I have sat like this back on base. Even in my own bed, away from prying eyes. I saw no reason to behave like anything other than what I was: a commander. If anyone had walked in unannounced, there would be nothing to give away that I was, indeed, a real person. Not that they would have lived long enough to tell anyone anyway…

Pushing away the thought, I set my sights on Juliette.

"Good morning, love."

Her feet continue their circuit, up, back, up, back. She doesn't say anything, nor does she react, but I think the edges of her lips turn up a bit. Hopefulness creeps in. She is the link to curing my mother. She is an escape from the weight of my father. I need this girl in my life for entirely selfish reasons, but I can't bring myself to be honest with her. I want Juliette Ferrars to like me, even if it only lasts for as long as I am in this cell. Even if the only proof I ever get is that tiny smile.

 _Please let that smile be real._

I want to begin my day, itch to develop a routine of some type. I am determined to get some answers from her today, so I get up and stretch my arms and back. While I move through various stances, I ask how old she is. _Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen_ , repeats itself in my head like a strange mantra, as if by repeating this number I can drag it out of her. Again, she says nothing, but I persist. Nothing in my life has ever come easy. Why should this be any different?

I move into push ups, my muscles aching for some kind of activity. On base, I find myself in my gym several times a day if I can pry myself away from the responsibilities. Here, I am still almost constantly.

Juliette looks over, arching one perfect, dark eye brow. Her deep eyes shoot through me. She blushes when she meets my gaze. A smile betrays me. It has been so long since I have seen a girl my own age. Unfortunately, girls do not survive long in the compounds, and those that do are kept inside to tend children and for their own protection.

I ask Juliette other questions throughout the duration of my workout, pausing for a count of five reps between each.

 _Where are you from?_

 _Why are you here?_

 _What is your favorite color?_

She is so damn stubborn, but I don't give in. Her eyelids flutter behind her eyes each time I ask her a question. She is still startled by my presence, but no longer quakes as she did yesterday. She is quick to adapt. Only two days in and I am seeing progress. I want to celebrate.

 _I'm coming, Mom. And I am bringing a cure._

Juliette POV

I wake up before the sun, scurrying to grab my diary from its hiding place. Careful not to make any noise, I scribble down the latest events. Usually I simply write observations, things that sound like poetry, perhaps things that make no sense to anyone but myself. Now, though, I feel as if I have a real entry. I squeeze it into a margin. Paper conservation is always a concern. I try to fit in everything in choppy sentences. _Roommate. Green eyes and blonde hair. Speaks to me. May be crazy,_ _but so am I_ _._

 _Attractive._ One line through that word. _Handsome._ Two lines through those.

I cap my pen, unable to think of anything else to write and embarrassed to look at the words I've crossed out. I push it underneath the edge of my mattress, a dangerous place to hide it, but I am reluctant to have it any farther from me. This boy is too unpredictable as it is. I cannot imagine how he might be when he gets comfortable.

Sleep evades me. There is no comfortable spot on my mattress, and I soon stop trying to find it, lest I wake my roommate. As time drags by, light fills the room. I choose my position for the day. Desperately needing to stretch out from being so cramped yesterday, my arms find their way over my head and my toes instinctively reach for the far wall, creating a pull in my calf. The feeling is exquisite. My back cracks and brings relief to my abused bones.

I study the ceiling, a surface that has been memorized, like all the others, but one that has gotten significantly less attention. I begin counting.

As I am nearing 500, green eyes awakens, finds me on my bed, and

says, "Good morning, love."

My skin prickles a little. My heart beats a little faster.

That _love_. It unnerves me. No one has ever used terms of endearment with me before. My parents never saw me as human. I wasn't deserving of a name. The police, the investigators, and the doctors all knew my name, but I was always a file number, a mystery to be solved. Never a person.

I recall him calling me 'love' when we first met, as well. I was so caught up in the whirlwind that was his presence that I completely missed this odd word. Even now my ears barely comprehend it. It seems so out of place in the mouth of a teenage boy, almost comical. My mouth twitches into a smile before I can control it.

I can hear him stand on the concrete, his clothing rustling against the sheets and his feet tapping the floor. My eyes flash open for a moment to find him stretching in the tiny space between his bed and mine. Those movements, odd as they may be, send jealousy searing through me. If only I could do that. If only I weren't the quiet, beaten down being that I am. If only I weren't so awkward. I might be able to stand, as he does, before someone else without feeling like I am burning under their gaze. If only I could make friends with this boy and develop a system of survival for us both in this dank, disgusting place I have begun to call home. But no. I feel guilty for just watching him. The thought of imposing on his morning keeps me from being free. I have become so accustomed to persecution, that I have begun persecuting myself.

Soon he begins stretching his legs. He holds a position I vaguely remember being called a "downward dog." After a few beats, he shifts each leg, one at a time. The left knee bends and he pushes back into his heel, stretching his calf. He repeats this with the other leg.

What he does next shocks me to my core.

He straightens his legs and proceeds to do _push ups_. Endless push ups. My brain begins to count them without my permission. My eyes are traitors that can't seem to close. My lips begin to form the words of the numbers. I can see the same numbers form on his lips. His muscles contract and relax through his shirt.

I wonder how he can be so outgoing. I wonder if, had I been in his position and he in mine, I would behave as he is now. I don't think I could question anyone the way he questions me. I cannot imagine myself digging my way into someone's mind like that. I have dug myself a groove in this life, a path, a personality that I cannot go back on now. He is the pursuer, the social one in our sick situation. I am the seasoned prisoner, the wise one that reveals nothing.

I don't feel very wise, though. I feel like a foolish girl who hadn't the foresight to prevent this horrible situation. I feel lost and confused, and that all used to be acceptable to me. It was okay because I could keep it to myself and in my own mind. And, if it slipped out, there would be no ears to catch the words. Now, I have to hold my secrets even nearer. I have to unravel this odd character without giving anything away. This is impossible.

I need him to stay away. I need him to keep to his side, keep his hands to himself, stop asking me all these questions before I break and it all comes tumbling out. Before perhaps the only person I have in the world who doesn't know what a monster I am figures it out.

The one-sided interrogation lasts all day. Deep in the afternoon I find myself angry that he doesn't give up the fight. Will his incessant questioning never end? Why can't he accept his fate as I have? Why can't he sit down and curl up, lay down and sleep, carve his name into the floor, something, anything solitary and individual?

My frustrations come to a head when the food is delivered.

Small tins of gruel are slid under the door. Like yesterday, he slides them both toward me. Unlike yesterday, I refuse his portion. I push it back. Stubbornly, he reaches over and begins to pour his food into my tin.

"Don't do that." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. They slide across my tongue, oddly forceful, but quiet all the same. His head snaps up in shock. I blush. Regret seeps across my tongue, making my distinctly aware of the body part that had betrayed me.

Quickly, he regains his control. "And why not?"

I take a deep breath. All I want is to crawl into the corner and die. I never liked attention. Then I strengthen my resolve. May as well finish what I've started.

"I don't need your help, and you don't need to starve."

His hand is hovering in the air above my dish. His lips are slightly parted. They look so soft... His eyes are scrutinizing me. I don't want to know how I must look to him. I don't want to think about how out of practice my social skills are. I just need him to take control of the moment so I can relax.

He angles his head slightly, dips it a little in acknowledgment of my request, "As you wish, love."

I've resumed my position from this morning, feeling my hip bones jutting out dangerously from my body as I stretch. "And stop calling me that."

 _Oh?_ I am shocked by my own words. _I'm feeling bold today I suppose…_

"Why?"

"I'm not your 'love'. You don't even know me."

Unshaken, he quickly asks, "What is your name?"

This question leaves me stalled. I keep my face solid, looking up as if examining the night sky or passing clouds and not the same disgusting ceiling I have spent the last few months under.

I won't give him this piece of me. After all this has been taken from me, simple as it is, retaining my name has become very important to me. There is a lot to a name. They create perspective, add to the personality something that wouldn't be there otherwise. An unfortunate name on a lovely person can completely revamp the name. Similarly, a horrid personality attached to the most delicate of names can ruin it forever.

 _No,_ I decide, _Names are too personal._

I don't know when, if ever, I will reveal it to him. In the back of my mind, I am still convinced I am not meant to last the day.

 _You've come this far._ A little voice nags me. I ignore it. This is such an impossible place, such a strain placed on the mind. It is easier to just forget.

My roommate chuckles a little under his breath.

"What is so amusing?"

"Well, you see, dear-" Another endearment. I shoot him a look, but he is completely unapologetic. "I have to address you in some way," he continues. "If you prefer I not call you by your name, I have an arsenal of others. You seem opposed to love and dear. I also know babydoll, honey, sweetie- though I personally dislike those. Perhaps you would enjoy another language? Mi amor, mon amour-"

I sigh. All my name rules, so intact just seconds ago, have been crushed, thrown out the window. Useless. If I don't give him my name, he will find another. _Why must he humanize me? No one else ever has._

"Juliette." I give him just one word, completely exhausted by his antics.

He smiles from ear to ear, his lips splitting open in a burst of excitement. "Ah, 'But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!'1 A lovely name, indeed."

Frustration sets my teeth on edge. I have no idea what he is saying. I am almost certain he is no longer speaking English. I cannot follow this boy's train of thought. I decide to ignore the comment and whatever it might mean.

"Now it is your turn, I believe."

"For what?" He replies slyly.

"To tell me your name." He can hear the irritation seeping through, dripping onto the floor, reaching toward him violently.

"Ah, I don't think so." He smiles smugly. He thinks he is so smart. I want to wipe that smirk off his face with my lips. I am fascinated, though I am loathe to admit it. Many times throughout the last few hours I have worried that he is all a figment of my imagination, that I have officially lost my last shred of insanity in this cell. This is another thought that I choose to forget.

This entire time his eyes have been fixed on my face, my eyes specifically. I wish I could reciprocate. The only features I have gathered from his face have been collected through furtive glances. Emotion, surprise, rage, frustration, has clouded my vision at every opportunity. He eyes haven't left my face once. My eyes haven't found his face once.

"Fine," I say. I allow myself one last jab before I close my mouth for the day. If it were up to me, I would never speak again. "Just know that I, too, have a couple names in mind. Though, I have to admit, they may not be as….endearing as yours."

His smile tears his face apart, a small laugh ripples across his expression. All of this I am witnessing from my side of the room. Such different personalities we possess. I hope my captors are proud of themselves. If they intended to torture me they have succeeded. His laughter kills me. It is so contagious. I want to laugh, to join in with him in a shared moment of joy. I am too stubborn. The laughter is repressed, and silence takes over the room again.

"My name is Aaron." His laughter is still rolling through his words, until he finally collapses back onto his bed in much the same position that I am in.

Aaron. I like that.


End file.
